MAURICE
by Daurmith
Summary: The Foggs try to get to Paris in a desperate race against time, while Jules receives an unexpected visitor...
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: Maurice  
AUTHOR: Adela Torres, "Daurmith" (daurmith@msn.com)  
SUMMARY: As the Foggs hurry back to Paris in a desperate mission, Jules receives an unexpected gift.  
CATEGORY: Action / Adventure  
RATING: G  
CHARACTERS: The whole cast, plus the Aurora, plus, of course, Maurice. Special guest star: Felix Nadar.  
ARCHIVE: Certainly. Just tell me where.  
DISCLAIMER: All characters but Maurice belong either to themselves or to Talisman. I'm not making any money out of this, nor should anyone.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
MAURICE  
  
A 'Secret Adventures of Jules Verne' fan fic  
By Adela Torres "Daurmith"  
  
  
- Chapter One -  
"Once more unto the breach"  
(Shakespeare)  
  
  
All was over bar the screaming. And the screaming was over rather quickly, after Rebecca delivered a carefully gauged kick to the kidneys of one of the men who lay in different states of bruising on the ground.  
  
"Be quiet," she said curtly, without looking. Her attention was centered in a pile of documents she and Phileas had just extracted from a hidden safe box. In front of her, her cousin Phileas, one hip perched on the table, leafed through the papers, frowning.  
  
"These are all in code," he said, absently sorting them out by the type of code. "I'm not up to date in all of them."  
  
"I am," Rebecca said, scanning rapidly through the papers. She knew what she was looking for. Phileas left her to it and turned a deceptively lazy eye towards their prisoners. None of them were in situation to be a problem, but just in case, he let them see his gun, as a reminder of what could happen if one of them but breathed in an ambiguous way.  
  
"Hah," he heard Rebecca say, and turned to her with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"It's as we feared," she explained. "They have been on to us for quite some time. It's a good thing that Chatsworth sent us here so quickly."  
  
"Chatsworth," Phileas said, with contempt. "That idiot would have never seen beyond the end of his own nose if you hadn't shown him the way."  
  
Rebecca didn't answer to this, which surprised Phileas mildly. She normally put up a nominal defense of her boss, for the sake of the Service mostly.  
  
"Oh, Lord," he heard her say. He tensed and turned back towards her. She was bent over one of the documents, and was following a string of symbols with a finger.   
  
"What is it?"  
  
"This... Phileas, this is about Jules."  
  
"Verne? What about him?" They had left him in Paris. They'd had literally no time to tell him they were leaving, and besides, he'd been only marginally involved in this particular affair; it had been months since the last time Verne had been directly involved in one of Rebecca's missions.  
  
"They... I cannot make full sense of it yet, but... Apparently they are aware of the help he gave us in the past. They... I don't quite understand this bit, but here..." Rebecca raised her eyes towards him, and, for the first time during this mission, there was fear in them.  
  
"Phileas, they've ordered his assassination."  
  
* * *   
  
April in Paris. Verne had heard it was supposed to be a charming season, bright and warm, sparkling with romanticism and =bonhomie=. The only thing sparkling so far was the frozen ink in his inkpot. Jules stabbed the small black iceberg to get to the remnant of liquid under it, and succeeded only in splashing some ink on his sleeve.  
  
A French curse echoed through the garret and peeled some paint off the dilapidated walls. Jules took his shirt off and attempted to get rid of the stain. It was his only decent shirt, and he had a class that afternoon.   
  
Someone knocked at his door.  
  
This was unusual. The only people who came to his garret were either his landlady, his friends, debtors, or the Foggs. Both his landlady and his friends never knocked, for different reasons; the debtors normally preferred to shout his name through the keyhole; and the Foggs used the window. This had been a polite, civilized knock. For a moment Jules stood still, shirt in one hand, bar of soap in the other. Then he went to the door and opened it.  
  
In the hall there was a young man, looking only a bit older than Verne himself. He wasn't very tall, and his blonde hair was soft and curly as a baby's. He was a bit on the stocky side, in a solid, well-proportioned way; he reminded Verne of a friendly shepherd dog. His suit was sober and scrupulously clean, of good quality but not extremely so.   
  
All this Verne noticed in a second, before the young man touched his hand to his hat politely.  
  
"Monsieur Jules Verne?"  
  
"Er... Yes?" If he was a debtor, he was by far the most polite Jules had ever met.   
  
"My name is Maurice Varlet. I'm here for the valet position."  
  
"The what?"  
  
"Oh dear. You didn't receive the letter?"  
  
"The what?"   
  
"Oh dear, oh dear... I do apologize. I assumed you already knew." Maurice patted his pockets and finally produced a sealed letter. "My references. They include a copy of my contract with you."  
  
"The wh...?" Realizing at this point that his contribution to the dialogue had been less than brilliant, Jules coughed. "Excuse me. This is all a bit confusing. Why don't you come in and... and explain, Monsieur Varlet?"  
  
"Please, call me Maurice," the young man said, entering the small room. "It's all very simple really, sir. I work for Mssrs. Ardan, Paganel et Montblanche, purveyors of Domestic Service and Sartorial Commodities. I have been assigned to serve you as a valet for the next three months."  
  
"Assigned? By whom?"  
  
"Ah. I'm afraid I cannot disclose the name of my current employer, sir. He wishes to remain anonymous. But I am authorized to tell you that this has been arranged as a modest present to you, with the hopes that you would find my services useful."  
  
Verne dropped his shirt carelessly over the back of his chair and sat at the table, reading the letter.  
  
"These are excellent references," he said, "really impressive. But I fail to see... I mean, it's obvious that I'm not the kind of person who should have a valet."  
  
"My employer feels otherwise," Maurice said, picking up Verne's shirt and folding it carefully. "I am instructed to tell you, should you display reluctance to accept my services, that he believes it to be the only way for you to focus adequately on your impending examinations. I hasten to point out the temporary nature of my appointment, sir. You are under no obligation whatsoever to keep me beyond this period."  
  
"Well, of course. It's just that... A valet..." How like Fogg, to give him this eccentric gift. Because the mysterious employer was certainly Phileas Fogg. No one else Jules knew could have afforded it, nor was likely to have had such idea in the first place. "And has your employer outlined your duties? As you can see, there's not much to do here in the way of service."  
  
"My duties include anything that you feel might help you concentrate in your studies, sir. I will be happy to clean, cook, take care of your clothes, and run errands for you."  
  
Verne almost laughed out loud at this. Fogg had to be kidding.  
  
"Look... Maurice," he said, kindly, "I understand you are in a difficult position here. But this is ridiculous. This place doesn't even =deserve= a cleaning. I have no clothes to speak of: you are holding my only shirt. And as for cooking, well, the presence of food here is so rare that I don't even own a pan. I eat outside. I'm sure your employer means well, but he's sadly misguided this time."  
  
Maurice smiled gently.  
  
"I am aware of all that, sir. I haven't yet mentioned that my wages include a modest but adequate budget to cover the basic necessities for us both during my employment. It's nothing that will allow you to indulge in extravagances, I'm afraid, but will take care, at least, of the cooking problem."  
  
Verne was speechless. Of course, he should have known that Fogg would cover each and every objection he might have had. He was vaguely offended and vaguely amused, and he didn't know exactly what to say to Maurice, who stood there with polite patience, still holding his shirt.  
  
"Well, this is all... I don't really know what to say, Maurice."  
  
"If I might make a suggestion, sir."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"You could have me around for some days, sir. In a probationary fashion. If, after a week or so, my services do not meet with your approval, I will return to Mssrs. Ardan, Paganel and Montblanche. The remainder of my salary and the house budget will be lost, I'm afraid. My current employer does not wish the money to return to him in case I do not finish my assignment."  
  
"Oh." There went his idea of giving Fogg back his valet and his money. The man liked to burn his bridges after him. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in trying. I gave you fair warning, after all."  
  
"Yes, sir. And thank you very much, sir."  
  
"Maurice, you don't have to call me 'sir'."  
  
"It wouldn't be proper, sir."  
  
"Maybe, but I would feel like my father. Call me Jules."  
  
"But..."  
  
"Look, I'm willing to give this a try for a few days, all right? But for that, you will have to call me Jules. Every time you say 'sir' I feel like I have to turn around and look for my teacher."  
  
Maurice's broad face twitched slightly, apparently caught up in a class conflict; but finally he nodded.  
  
"Very well, s- Jules."  
  
"That's much better. Now, can I have my shirt back, please?"  
  
* * *   
End of Chapter One 


	2. Chapter Two

MAURICE  
  
  
  
- Chapter Two -  
Night sprang forth out of the heavens  
(Homer, "The Odyssey")  
  
  
It was a busy evening inside the =Aurora=. Not as busy, though, as the evening outside the =Aurora=. The wind had been picking up for quite some time now, a nasty, gusty wind that blew apparently from everywhere at once and that was, in all likelihood, going to grow into a full-fledged storm.  
  
"It is not good, master. There is only this much speed to use!" Passepartout cried. Phileas, by his side at the steering ball, went to the windows and back, eyeing the weather as though it was a personal enemy.   
  
"Well, then =do= something else, man! Burn something! Don't we need to lose weight, throw some chairs overboard? There must be something we can do to outrun the storm!" Phileas's voice carried a slight edge of uncertainty. He was asking a miracle from his resourceful valet, and he knew it. Yet the frustration was too big for him to bear alone.  
  
"No, master," Passepartout explained patiently. "The ship has to be this heavy or we are not steering well. This is the fastness it gets for now, Master. The winds are cross."  
  
"I'll bet they are," Phileas grumbled, and turned to the table where Rebecca, braced against one of the walls, was working feverishly on the decryptions. Normally the gondola of the =Aurora= was as stable as a barge, but tonight, with the ship being forced to its top speed in what looked like an impending gale, everything rocked and shook as if the dirigible was the frailest of skiffs.  
  
"Anything new?" Phileas asked as he approached his cousin. Rebecca took the pencil from between her teeth and made a note.  
  
"There's some more data about the double-agent," she said, grimly. "Mostly rendezvous places in Paris and Calais. They sent him orders to assassinate Jules in a way that would not raise the Service's suspicions. Oh, to think that he's been aware of Jules's connection to us for so long..." Rebecca checked herself on time. She couldn't afford rage now.  
  
"Passepartout says we can't go any faster," Phileas said. "He estimates we will be in Paris tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"Tomorrow!?" Rebecca's head snapped up from the documents.   
  
Her expression was so intense that Phileas made an unconscious placating gesture with one hand. "It took us almost three days to get here!" he said. "If we stop for nothing in the world, the weather doesn't delay us, and the =Aurora= can hold this pace, we might make it in that time."  
  
"Well, then, let's get down, send a cable to Chatsworth!" Rebecca's hands moved in the air as if sending the telegram herself. "This is =Jules= we're talking about, Phileas!"  
  
"I =know=!" he all but shouted. "But the cable will take half a day to reach Chatsworth, and he'll take at least a day to send someone, and another day to get there, and meanwhile we'll be hopelessly delayed. We're Jules's best hope right now. Keep working on those files. Anything they were planning for Jules will be there."  
  
"I don't need you to tell me what to do," Rebecca hissed. Phileas stood still as a rock for a moment, against the heaving background of the gondola. Rebecca recognized the instinctive change in balance, the body poised for attack, the utter, coiled stillness of his whole frame: Phileas was angry. She took a breath to say something, to apologize. But Phileas's hand on her shoulder stopped her.  
  
"It's all right," he said, softly. "I'm going to relieve Passepartout. Carry on." Phileas left her and went to the steering ball, where Passepartout was trying to keep the ship stable. The valet looked tired, and Phileas patted him on the shoulder. "Go get some rest," he told him.  
  
"Master, I can..." the valet's protest was cut short by Phileas's raised hand.  
  
"No, Passepartout," he said, gently but firmly. "You can't. Now it's the time for you to rest a little. We will need you if the weather gets worse. We'll take turns: first you, then Rebecca, then me."  
  
"I'll go make some tea for you, before," the Frenchman said, as a compromise, as Phileas took the steering ball and began to check the controls.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Passepartout turned, then stopped, and went back to Phileas's side, his face anxious. "Master... We are arriving in time for Jules, no?"  
  
Phileas looked for a moment into the worried face of his valet. Passepartout hadn't asked a single question, bless him, since they'd arrived at the =Aurora= at a gallop and told him to get it airborne right this very minute, man, this very second if not sooner, and plot the fastest route to Paris. He'd heard their somewhat confused account of the danger that threatened Jules while laying out a course, and had not wasted a single moment in preparing the ship for the journey. Now that the course was laid and the ship going as fast as it was possible, he could worry. And he was.  
  
"Yes, we are, Passepartout. I give you my word, we are."  
  
Passepartout smiled, with absolute confidence in him. Phileas's smile was a little sad; his word had not been honored before. Fate had made a perjurer of him too many times. Not by any fault of his own, perhaps. But if he insisted on flinging himself against steel walls time and time again, why should he be surprised if the outcome was a painful one?  
  
_But not this time. Please, Lord, not this time._  
  
He grasped the steering-globe firmly with his long hands, and set the =Aurora= on her course with all the determination of one setting the paths of the stars.  
  
* * *  
  
Jules's social views were suffering a heavy attack after the first hours of Maurice's presence in his life. He returned from his lesson to find the garret clean and tidy, his meager possessions in perfect condition, and all the windows scrubbed. The panes were made of cheap glass, full of bubbles and imperfections, but stripped of its decade-old coat of grime, the glass let the soft orange light of the Parisian sunset into the small room, where it shone off everything that could possibly be persuaded to shine. A chipped mug in the windowsill held a little spray of daisies and marigolds. The floors had been scrubbed, the cobwebs eliminated from the nooks and crannies in the old ceiling, and his bed linen had been hung to dry over a makeshift clothesline that ran from side to side of the room. A small cot had appeared next to the door.  
  
"Good evening, s- Jules," Maurice said. He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, much like Passepartout, except Maurice's waistcoat was an unobtrusive grey instead of the black-and-yellow stripes of his French friend. He was stirring something that smelled wonderful, in a small cauldron over the stove.  
  
"Maurice, good evening. You've done wonders with this place. I never thought it would be possible, but you have proven me wrong."  
  
"Thank you, s-. Um. Thank you. I hope you will find everything to your taste. I haven't touched your papers; I know that scholars don't usually like anyone to touch their work. But in case you want to archive something, I got this."  
  
He produced an old wooden crate. It had been cleaned up, and any possible splinters had been removed. Jules was still somewhat taken aback by his new status as "scholar".  
  
"Oh, good idea, yes, this will do very well. This is, this is all wonderful. Even flowers!"  
  
"I got them from the florist girl when I went down to buy some groceries. The stems were broken and the flowers were not suitable for a bouquet anymore. I hope you don't mind."  
  
"No, not at all, not at all."  
  
"Since the situation is... somewhat unusual, I cannot possibly retire to my quarters for dinner. I thought I might serve you dinner first."  
  
"Nonsense," Jules said promptly, and was shocked to realize that he had sounded exactly like Phileas. "I believe I have two plates and certainly two forks. We can share the knife. But you will dine with me."  
  
  
It was a good dinner. Maurice had prepared a chicken casserole, and they also had bread, fruit and cheese. A simple enough meal, nothing that would cause Jules any social discomfort. They didn't have wine, but Maurice prepared a pot of coffee and they sat together to drink it. The valet seemed to have come to terms with his bizarre master and relaxed somewhat. Jules only had to remind him about the 'sir' bit once every hour or so.  
  
"You have a slight accent," Jules remarked when they were drinking their second cup of coffee. Maurice smiled his incongruously shy smile.  
  
"Yes? Yes. I'm Belgian, you see," he said, in a slightly apologetic tone that Jules found odd.  
  
"Oh? Where from?" The coffee was a bit weak, but good, and put Jules in mind of Passepartout's excellent coffee. He wondered if he could keep Maurice, and if Passepartout would get along with the young man.   
  
"Knokke."  
  
He had never heard of it. It had a good sound, though. Perhaps it would make a nice location for one of his stories. "Is it nice?"  
  
"Yes, very. But small." Maurice's attention was fixed on his cup of coffee. He stirred it, quite unnecessarily, and took a sip.  
  
"So, do you prefer the city, then?" Jules prodded gently.  
  
"It has advantages for people in my profession," Maurice said, and then rose to take away the cups and the coffee pot. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Jules rebuked himself for his curiosity. It must not be proper, either. He wished he had paid more attention to the way Fogg conducted himself around his staff at Shillingworth. Even with Passepartout, Fogg rarely started any idle chitchat, and if he had any curiosity about Passepartout's past or his background, he never showed it. To hide his little gaffe, Jules stood up and went to get his coat, only to find that Maurice had anticipated his intention and was handing it to him.  
  
"Are you going out?" the valet asked, giving the coat a light brushing that, in Jules's opinion, the garment didn't deserve at all.  
  
"I usually go to the café for a glass of wine with my friends. Would you like to come?"  
  
Jules could almost guess Maurice's response before it even started. "Oh, it wouldn't be..."  
  
"Proper? Come on, Maurice. Don't worry yourself with all this propriety nonsense. Come and meet my friends. Enjoy this assignment while it lasts."  
  
"Very well... Jules."  
  
  
Maurice seemed uncomfortable all the way to the café. He insisted on walking half a step behind Jules and walked strangely hunched, head down, hands in his coat's pockets. Jules wondered if he was ashamed of being seen in the company of his master. Or maybe he just didn't like people.   
  
He started turning a corner and was startled to find Maurice's hand on his arm.  
  
"This way is shorter," the valet said, pointing to a dark alley half blocked by rotting wooden crates.  
  
"Well... Yes, but it's not very... nice," Jules finished lamely. He'd made a point of avoiding dark alleys since his friends pointed out, quite vehemently, that no good thing could ever happen to him in a dark alley. They were right, too. Explaining all this to Maurice would be extremely complicated, however. And long.  
  
"We'll cut a good five minutes off the route," Maurice insisted. "I, um, found out this mor- afternoon."  
  
"I don't like the looks of it," Jules said, but, to his surprise, Maurice didn't move.  
  
"It's all right, Jules," he said. "Come on. I'll take care of you."   
  
Maurice went straight into the alley and Jules followed him, swearing to himself.  
  
* * *   
  
End of Chapter Two 


	3. Chapter Three

MAURICE  
  
- Chapter Three -  
"Full of sound and fury"  
(Shakespeare)  
  
  
Phileas awoke instantly from his uneasy sleep on the main cabin's bench; the whole gondola was swaying wildly from side to side, and from everywhere came the sound of tortured mechanisms fighting against impossible forces. What had started as a strong wind had finally developed into the full gale they had been dreading.  
  
"Passepartout!"  
  
"Master!" the voice of the valet came from somewhere in the belly of the dirigible. Rebecca was fighting with the steering ball, and gave him a quick fierce nod of the head, "go." He nodded back and went to the open trapdoor, kneeling beside it to see his valet working frantically on the engine, that shook and trembled with the effort of endless hours of struggle.  
  
"What is it?" he cried, shouting to make himself heard above the awful noise of the tempest.  
  
"One of the tubings is breaking and the wind is...!" A jet of steam shot from one of the pipes and cut him short. Passepartout jumped backwards with a cry, and was saved from a nasty fall against the boilers by Phileas's long arm coming from the trapdoor and steadying him. As soon as Passepartout recovered his balance, Fogg dropped through the trapdoor to his side.  
  
"Are you all right, Passepartout? You are not burned?"  
  
"No. No, master, but if another tubings breaks, the =Aurora= will crash!" Passepartout said, trying to contain the leak with the help of an oiled cloth.  
  
"What can we do?"  
  
"I have to shut down the engine to make the repairing," the valet said, busily opening some valves, closing others, and adjusting controls with what looked like every part of his body at the same time.  
  
Phileas shook his head. "Out of the question, Passepartout."  
  
"It has to be done, master, or we'll fall. The =Aurora= will be like a balloon for a small time, but it's very dangerous being a balloon in this time."  
  
As if to prove him right, the dirigible rocked from side to side with such force that both men were plunged towards the engine. Phileas stopped himself barely in time to avoid touching the burning metal of the pipes. "Will we be able to steer?" he said as soon as he regained his balance.  
  
"Not well," Passepartout replied. "Only the main tiller, and if we take the wrong move, we all go!"  
  
Phileas reflected for a few quick moments.  
  
"Repair the engines," he said, clapping Passepartout on the shoulder as he reached up to pull himself out of the engine room. "We'll take care of navigation meanwhile." An instant later he was back into the cabin, where he met Rebecca's anxious gaze. He explained the situation succinctly. Rebecca's eyes narrowed as she realized the full extent of the danger.  
  
"Are we stopping?" she asked in a deceptively neutral tone.  
  
"Not for the world." Phileas said fiercely, and Rebecca nodded, relieved. "But we don't have much time to prepare for this. Go to the storage room and get the storm cables. You'll have to set them yourself, can you do it?"  
  
"Yes. What are you going to do?"  
  
"I'm going to take this dirigible through the storm," he said, taking the controls from her. "Go!"  
  
"I'm stopping the engines now, Master!" came Passepartout's faint cry. The warning proved useful: as soon as the engines stopped, the =Aurora= started jumping and rocking like a wild horse. The previous movement was nothing compared to this unbarred, chaotic violence that shook every rivet in the gondola and made every timber groan. Phileas grafted himself to the steering ball and fought to give the ship some small degree of stability.  
  
"Put a harness on, for God's sake!" he cried as Rebecca made her way cautiously to the rigging, carrying the cables that would reinforce the endangered balloon netting.   
  
Phileas fought with every sinew in his body to keep the ship steady as he felt his way through the winds, making the =Aurora= an extension of his body; every ounce of will he possessed was focused on holding her together and on course while the ship was shaken like a feather in the gale.  
  
* * *  
  
The alley was as dark as dark alleys come, and Jules hurried to catch up with Maurice, who had inexplicably stopped, halfway through the short length of it.  
  
"Maurice?" The young man, one hand in his pocket, seemed to be about to turn around - when two things happened: a cat crossed the grubby cobblestones from side to side, and a dark misshapen form obscured the exit of the alley.  
  
"Jules?" said the apparition, and the strange figure resolved itself into his friend Felix Nadar, burdened by his bulky photographic equipment.  
  
"Felix! You scared the life out of me!"  
  
"Well, you too," Felix said, miffed. "What is all this lurking about in alleys? Hey, who's your friend?"  
  
Jules stepped out of the alley into the main street, followed by Maurice, who seemed embarrassed for some reason.  
  
"Ah, yes. This is Maurice Varlet. He's a... a friend, from Belgium."  
  
"How do you do?" Maurice said politely, with a small bow. Felix raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Charmed, I'm sure," he said. Then he turned to his friend. "Were you going to the café?"  
  
"Yes. Are you?"  
  
"As soon as I leave all this safely somewhere."  
  
"I'll be happy to carry that for you, sir," Maurice interjected smoothly.  
  
"Don't pamper him, Maurice," Jules said, with a laugh. "A little exercise will do him good. Come on, Felix, we'll ask Pierre to keep your things in the bar's back room. The girls won't mind."  
  
"Let them never said that I let pass the chance of having some wine," Felix said, and they made their way to the café, with Maurice following them half a pace behind, hands in his pockets.  
  
* * *  
  
"Just a little whiler, Master!" Passepartout's voice, hoarse with effort, came faintly to Phileas's numb mind. He didn't feel his arms, taut as steel cables with the effort of keeping the =Aurora= stable and more or less on course. The continued exertion was taking its toll on him as he fought to see anything in the night sky; all the stars had been blotted out by the storm clouds. He was horribly conscious of the fact that the constant movement fooled his senses so that he could be steering the =Aurora= straight into land, or a cliff side, or any other terrifying possibility. Yet he kept at it; he had no other choice.  
  
"Rebecca? Rebecca!" he yelled. She had been shouting from time to time to let him know she was still there. Her job had been the hardest of them all, hanging precariously from the =Aurora='s netting, securing the rigging as well as she could. After miraculously surviving the task, she'd gone to reinforce the tiller, and now she was out again, lashed to a railing on the observation deck, attempting to pierce the darkness with the night glass.  
  
She came back in and fell against the wall, panting. "Nothing," she gasped when she got part of her breath back. "It's all dark as hell, Phileas, there's nothing to see."  
  
Phileas nodded, and groaned when the =Aurora= took a frightful plunge. In an instant Rebecca was by his side, helping him bring the ship back up as much as she could go.  
  
"Let me relieve you," she said, although it was obvious that she could hardly stand up by herself. He shook his head.  
  
"How's the barometer? I can't look now," he said, feeling the dirigible recover a bit of altitude as it responded slowly to his steering.  
  
"Still low. How long can you keep at this?"  
  
"As long as I have to. Go help Passepartout," he replied, trembling from head to toe along with the =Aurora= as the ship fought its way through the crosswinds. Rebecca said nothing and stumbled to the engine room.  
  
A sudden gust of wind shook the =Aurora= and threw Phileas forwards; one of the control levers hit him fully in the ribcage, and Phileas groaned in pain.   
  
"I'm having as little fun as you, my dear," he said through clenched teeth, as he brought her up again, inch by agonizing inch. His strength was fading fast.  
  
"Passepartout!" he cried, "Hurry up, Passepartout!"  
  
* * *   
  
A slightly tipsy Jules, together with a mightily drunk Felix, made sinuous progress back to Jules's garret.  
  
"One more before I go!" Felix intoned, while trying to turn a corner walking on his hands.  
  
"I think you've had more'n enough, Felix," said Jules, hiccupping gently. Maurice helped the photographer up and steadied him.  
  
"You're a sshtrong chap, Maurice," said Felix, slumped against the valet's short but strong frame. "Yesyouare, yeeeshh, you are, you are. Look at him, carrying my thingsh and poor lidd... little old me, too."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"Do me a favor, Maurice, and get him to bed, will you? Here's the key to his flat. It's over there, two blocks down... number six Rue du Vermont. It's the narrow red house between the fish shop and the... the little place with the pottery, forgot the name, can't miss it anyway."  
  
"But, Jules..."  
  
"He can hardly walk, after all. Come on, be a good friend. I'll leave the door open," Jules said, and started purposefully towards his home, yawning, leaving Maurice burdened with a photographic machine and the giggling, drunken form of Felix.  
  
* * *  
  
The storm was over.  
  
The engines came back to life, haltingly at first, then gaining strength as the steam pressure rose. Passepartout pulled himself out of the engine room and walked, limping slightly, towards the steering ball.  
  
"It's done, master, it's done!" he cried.  
  
"Very well done indeed, Passepartout," Phileas croaked. He was all but draped over the ball. "I think the worst is over."  
  
The valet reached his master's side, made as if to touch him, and stopped.  
  
"We are needing to see how long are we away from the course," he said.  
  
"Yes, good idea," Phileas said, thinking that if he had to correct the =Aurora='s course one more time his arms would fall off.  
  
"I'm meaning, master, that you are being the better navigationator, and me being in the engines and all, the eyes are tired," he said, lying through his teeth from the first word to the last, as both men knew very well. "But I can take the ball now that the wind is less forceful."  
  
"Ah..." for a moment Phileas forgot completely how to make his body move away from the steering ball. He took a deep breath and stood straight, forcing his body to remain upright by sheer will only. He glanced at Rebecca, slumped on the main cabin's padded bench and trying hard not to fall asleep herself.  
  
"Yes," he said, taking careful steps towards the chart board. Dawn light was flooding the cabin now, showing a scene of utter devastation. Everything not secured to the walls had been tossed all over the gondola's interior with considerable force. Broken china and dented knickknacks covered the floor. Phileas felt just like the broken china, and only slightly less dented than the knickknacks. His side ached, but it didn't matter, because that put his side at the same level as the rest of his body.  
  
He reached the charts. Closing his eyes against the pain in his sides and back and arms and legs, he sighed, and began the calculations.  
  
* * *  
  
Dawn hit Jules between the eyes like a mallet, and he regretted deeply his new clean windows that had turned into unsuspected offensive weapons. He groaned, experimentally.  
  
"Jules?" Maurice said. Jules groaned again.  
  
"Please don't shout..." he mumbled. A strange smell filled his nostrils.  
  
"Sorry. Here, drink this."  
  
A hot mug was pressed against Jules's hand. He took it and wrinkled his nose against the unfamiliar scent of the steam rising from the mug.  
  
"What is this?"  
  
"It's a... family recipe. For hangovers," Maurice said. Jules made a face, but took a sip obediently.  
  
"Yeuch," he said by way of comment.  
  
"Yes, I know. But it works wonders, you'll see."  
  
"You're a wonder, Maurice. I'm so glad Fogg sent you."  
  
Maurice gave a visible start at this. Then he smiled.  
  
"The identity of my client must remain unknown, Jules."  
  
"Yes, yes, I know. Damn the man and his Englishness." Jules took another sip and his eyes seemed to unglue a bit, focusing on the young valet. There was a certain puffiness around Maurice's eyes, and his shirt looked slightly rumpled. It had been a rough night for both of them, apparently.  
  
"Do you have lessons today, Jules?"  
  
"Uhnn... Yes. Yes, I have. The first one is at eleven. I'm not late, am I? What time is it?"  
  
"It's only nine. Do you mind if I walk with you when you leave? I need to get to the Post Office close to the Sorbonne."  
  
"Oh. Of course, by all means. You don't have to ask me, you know."  
  
"I like to do things properly," Maurice said with a little bow, one hand in his pocket.  
  
"Properly," he repeated softly, and then he turned and went to prepare breakfast.  
  
* * *  
  
End of Chapter Three 


	4. Chapter Four

MAURICE  
  
- Chapter Four -  
"Weigh in your mind the various chance of war"  
(Virgil)  
  
  
Jules was puzzled at Maurice's insistence in taking the less-populated streets to the Sorbonne. The valet insisted they were all shortcuts, and maybe he was right. They certainly arrived to the University in a very short time, although Maurice looked a bit put out by the number of beggars they found on their way and made a point to steer Jules away from them.  
  
"I'll see you later, Maurice. Don't worry about lunch, I'll be here until the afternoon."  
  
"Very well, sir."  
  
Jules chuckled and shook his head gently. "You know, Maurice, I think I'm going to miss you when your time with me is over. I have to confess that I find you a big help."  
  
Maurice's smile was a little bit strained when he thanked Jules and, touching his hat, disappeared from sight. Jules watched him go, reflecting absently that if he was going to the Post Office, he was going the wrong way.  
  
Then he shrugged and went to his classes.  
  
* * *  
  
"So, what's the verdict?" Rebecca asked. Phileas rubbed his eyes.  
  
"Not as bad as I feared. We got off course during the storm, but not by too much. And the winds seem to have pushed us farther than I expected."  
  
"When will we arrive at Paris?"  
  
"After noon, most likely, unless we hit some favorable winds that might help the engines."  
  
"Damn and blast." Despite the exhaustion showing clearly in her face, Rebecca's eyes burned with energy. Phileas wondered how she managed it. He himself felt close to passing out.  
  
"We are making it in the time," Passepartout said, coming from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and a tray of sandwiches. "The =Aurora= is bad but she's working, and if it is for a little hours I can make her go faster with the more pressure. Now you eat. I make more coffee."  
  
Phileas wolfed down a sandwich and a cup of coffee practically without breathing. Rebecca, eating far more daintily by his side, looked at her notes and frowned.  
  
"You know the assassin may already have gotten Jules," she said, darkly. She never minced words, and Phileas felt a wave of anger mixed with fear that made him dizzy for a second.  
  
"Yes," he breathed. "He may. But he hasn't. They'll want to make it look like an accident. There's a limited number of ways to do that, and most of them are not at all easy, as you know very well."  
  
"But he lives in that place... With all the alleys, and the thugs, and the dark corners, and...," Rebecca shut up and breathed deeply for a moment. "You're right, of course," she said. "I'm sorry. We will get there in time."  
  
Phileas knew that she was reflecting about all the possible ways of killing a gifted, trusting, eminently good young man who had never distinguished himself by his ability to detect duplicity. There were so many of them.  
  
"Maybe Jules will notice something wrong," Rebecca said, half-heartedly. "Maybe he'll have the good sense to leave his garret and go to a friend's house."  
  
"Not Jules," Phileas said, curtly. If Rebecca was trying to fool herself into a false sense of security, she had chosen the wrong moment. And the wrong interlocutor.   
  
She seemed to realize this almost immediately. "No, not Jules," she said.  
  
Passepartout arrived just at this moment with another tray of sandwiches. Perceiving the dark silence that had fallen between the cousins, he withdrew in silence to try to coax a few more knots out of the exhausted =Aurora='s engines.  
  
* * *  
  
The morning crawled on. Jules managed, with what he thought was heroic effort, to stay awake during Latin class, but his mind refused to collaborate during Canonical Law class and sent him on a fantastic voyage across the dark side of the Moon, which he pictured full of cities and seas and strange and beautiful mountains. When he awoke from his daydream, his notes were, not surprisingly, covered in sketches and drawings.   
  
Jules decided against some time in the Library, on the basis that it would only beget yet even more sketches and very little knowledge of the Law, and left the building. It was a bright day, still a little cold but already mellowed by the spring, and a walk to his garret seemed a good idea. He would use some of Maurice's budget to buy a meat pie or something like that, and enjoy the fresh air.  
  
He had decided to accept Fogg's gift and keep Maurice with him until the end of the term. It was perhaps grossly indulgent on his part, and he admitted he was going to have a hard time explaining Maurice to his friends, but it was wonderful to come home to a nice hot dinner, flowers in the window, and clean bed sheets. So what if Maurice liked to walk with his hands in his pockets, or tended to avoid crowded streets? He was young and probably inexperienced, despite his obvious competence. And if he had been raised in a small town he would be a bit shy of people, wouldn't he?  
  
He'll use his time with Maurice as a writer's exercise. Yes, that was it. He would learn as much as possible from the way the young man talked and walked, and he'd try to make him into a character for one of his stories. That way Fogg's generosity would be met by some... reciprocity on his part. He would make a gift of this gift, in the form of a story.   
  
Satisfied with this reasoning, Jules walked on towards his home and never noticed the short blond man that followed him from a distance.  
  
* * *  
  
"=Yes=," Rebecca said vehemently under her breath, when the daffodil-yellow sun showed her the hazy roofs of Paris. It was barely after noon. "Passepartout, you're amazing."  
  
"It is the =Aurora=, Miss Rebecca," the valet said, obviously pleased by the compliment nevertheless. "She is the very good airyship of the world."  
  
"Indeed she is," Rebecca agreed, and turned to see Phileas coming from his room. He was dressed in a dark suit that enhanced his exhausted pallor, making him look extremely menacing. The pistol he held in one hand did nothing to improve this image, either. When he arrived to her side he looked into her eyes earnestly.  
  
"How do you want to do this?" he asked. Of course. She was the active agent, he was the backup. The decisions were hers, the success would be hers. And the mistakes would also be hers.  
  
"We need to locate Jules quickly," she said, thinking fast. "No need for us three to look in the same place. We'll drop Passepartout at Jules's garret. If he's there, all's well. If not, Passepartout will cover the nearby streets and wait in case he comes back. Phileas, you cover the University area, and I will take the =Aurora= and let her be seen over the Bois Boulogne, in case he's there sketching, you know how he loves the place. And Phileas, there's a Post office near the University, a telegram to Chatsworth wouldn't be a bad idea."  
  
"Very well, if I must," he agreed reluctantly, pocketing the gun.   
  
"It is surely that Jules is seeing the =Aurora= already soon, and he's meeting us fastly," Passepartout said cheerfully.  
  
"Let's hope so. Take us there, Passepartout."  
  
"Right now, Miss Rebecca."  
  
_Not long now_, Rebecca thought. _The waiting is almost over_. She fingered one of her throwing knives and thought about all the possible ways she knew to kill a man. If Jules was dead, all of them together were too good for his assassin.  
  
* * *  
  
Jules bought a meat pie from a boulanger and added another one for Maurice as an afterthought. The valet would probably be shocked. He would certainly say that it wasn't proper. So what. Exhilarated by the nice weather and the warm bourgeois feeling that came with a full stomach, Jules started to walk down a relatively busy street towards his garret. Behind him, the short blonde man started to run and disappeared abruptly into one of the alleys.  
  
* * *   
  
With an acrobat's leap, Passepartout jumped into Jules's garret through the open window, dispensing with the need to set the plank and thus earning the Foggs precious seconds for the search.  
  
"You go, you go!" he cried as soon as he was inside, for it was obvious that the garret was empty. And clean. Passepartout wondered briefly about this, and then he ran downstairs to the street.  
  
  
"No luck there," Rebecca said. "Get ready, Phileas, I'm steering towards the University."  
  
Phileas was glued to the panoramic windows, scanning every inch of street he could see. Suddenly he stiffened up and his breath came out in a hiss.  
  
"Rebecca, wait. Come here."  
  
"What is it?" Rebecca locked the dirigible to hover in place and went to the window. They were overlooking a small alley that opened into a wide street. One of the pedestrians was, undoubtedly, Jules Verne. No one had yet noticed the =Aurora= over their heads.  
  
"Jules!" Rebecca said, relieved, but Phileas's hand on her arm was cold as ice. She noticed then that a man was hiding behind the corner of the small alley. Another one was coming from the opposite direction, and a third one was crossing the street. Jules was barely fifteen paces away from the man in the corner, and the other two were closing on him fast.  
  
"The winch!" she cried, but Phileas was already opening the hatch and activating the unwinding mechanism.  
  
"I'm going down, get the gun!" he cried, and disappeared through the opening.  
  
"Dammit!" Rebecca cried, and she went to get the heavy rocket launcher, which they kept loaded with smoke grenades. She went to the observation deck and trained the weapon on the street.  
  
* * *  
  
An unexpected shadow covered the sun. Jules looked up, startled, and his face broke into a huge smile as he recognized the =Aurora=, hovering over him. Rebecca was at the railing, and she was... pointing a gun towards him?  
  
"Jules, run, run!" he heard her shout, and before he could react, a powerful arm grabbed him from behind and dragged him into an alley.  
  
"Don't struggle," a voice said by his ear, and Jules gargled in shock as he realized that the arm that was almost choking him was Maurice's. The valet was incredibly strong. Jules felt himself powerless in his grip as he was dragged further into the shadowy alley. Out in the street there was a small explosion and a cloud of yellow smoke, and Maurice let out a cry of surprise at this. Jules didn't have time to wonder about the smoke, because the arm released him, and he fell against the wall, coughing.   
  
Someone was apparently attacking Maurice, someone tall and dark with two burning eyes shining in a face white with rage. _Fogg_, Verne thought, relief making his knees buckle, until he saw that Maurice was holding his ground and even managed to hit Fogg with a powerful punch in the ribs that made the Englishman cry out in pain.  
  
"You will not get him," Maurice hissed, as Fogg recovered and delivered a couple of punches that would have knocked out an ox. Maurice staggered, but did not fall. Verne was wondering about the valet's words when a slender form emerged from the smoke and Rebecca put a gun against Maurice's head.  
  
"Don't move or... =Maurice?="  
  
Maurice turned, and immediately all the fight left from him. His arms dropped to his sides and his face became the very image of astonishment.  
  
"=Miss Fogg!?="  
  
* * *   
  
End of Chapter Four 


	5. Chapter Five

MAURICE  
  
- Chapter Five -  
"All ye need to know"  
(Keats)  
  
  
Aboard the =Aurora=, Maurice sat on a chair and cringed a little under the combined scrutiny of Verne, Passepartout, and the Foggs.  
  
"You were protecting him, then," Rebecca said, wonderingly. Fogg shot a dark glance towards the far side of the room, where the two men Rebecca had knocked out as she descended from the =Aurora= via the scale lay bound and gagged. Maurice followed his gaze and nodded.  
  
"They were about to kill him, Miss Fogg," he said, "probably by pushing him into the traffic, making it look like an accident, you know... An unfortunate push from an innocent pedestrian in the busy street. Or maybe simply faking a mugging. I had no way of knowing. I just knew I had to take Jules... I mean, Monsieur Verne, out of the street."  
  
"You were not very delicate about it," Jules said, rubbing his neck.  
  
"And I'm very sorry, but I wasn't sure that you would react fast enough. They were very close and you do tend to not pay attention to your surroundings."  
  
Jules harrumphed to hide his embarrassment at this. Rebecca's mouth curled upwards in her swift, lopsided smile.  
  
"And you decided to adopt the guise of a valet," she said, "so that you'd have an excuse to be near him at all times."  
  
"Yes. I considered that the University was safe, but all the other times I wanted to be close, or at least close enough." He turned to Jules. "I followed you the first day, when you returned from your classes. I left you as soon as you were close enough to the garret."  
  
"But you cleaned the whole place, and prepared dinner, and everything."  
  
"Ah, well..." Maurice blushed. "Not really. I paid a woman I know to do all that and leave before you returned. She works in a little hotel I used to frequent. She's a very good cook, while I'm a terrible one," he added, with his shy smile.   
  
Jules had been following his own train of thought.  
  
"And you're not Belgian!" he said, accusingly. For some reason this seemed to hurt Maurice.  
  
"Er, no. Sorry. But my mother is. She's from Knokke. I tried to tell as few lies as possible."  
  
"That was very wise of you," Rebecca assured Maurice, and the young agent relaxed a little. "A good strategy for any under-cover agent."  
  
"And when we went to the café..." Jules said, going methodically over his time with the faux-valet.  
  
"If you hadn't asked me to go with you, I would have followed you," Maurice explained. He seemed eager to make all the facts clear to the Foggs, who still looked a bit suspicious. "We knew the kind of thugs that the double agent..."  
  
"Fitzgerald?" Rebecca interjected. Maurice looked at her in surprise.  
  
"Yes. We knew the kind of men he liked to hire. The kind of people that would act under the cover of a crowd: a quick stabbing, a push under a cart... I had a hard time turning you away from crowds, Jules."  
  
"That's why you made me follow you into the alley the first evening," the writer said, in a voice of slow realization.  
  
"Yes, and I nearly had a heart attack when I heard a noise. I thought it was them. But it was only that damned cat, and immediately after your friend Felix appeared and I was this close to putting a bullet through his head. I'm afraid that I rushed him a bit when I took him to his house afterwards. I'm not even sure I left him in =his= house, but anyway, I hurried back after you as fast as I could. That's when you were in the most danger; I was frightfully anxious."  
  
"And you kept guard all night," Jules said, softly, remembering Maurice's puffed eyes in the morning, his rumpled shirt.  
  
"Of course. I couldn't be sure they wouldn't try to get to you at night."  
  
"And next morning... you didn't have to go to the Post Office, right?"  
  
"Not exactly, but after leaving you safely at the University I ran to contact my superiors and report to them. Then I posted myself at the exit to wait for you. I had half a mind to meet you when I saw you leave, but I thought you might begin to suspect a valet that never was more than two paces away, and so I decided to follow you from a distance."  
  
"And we saw you from the =Aurora=," Rebecca said. "We thought =you= were Jules's assassin."  
  
"I can't blame you for that, Miss Fogg. It must have looked pretty suspicious from your point of view. Unfortunately, I saw the assassins at that moment - I recognized one of them - and the only thing I could think of was to get Jules away from the street as soon as possible. So I ran through the alleys and, well... grabbed him."  
  
"Which you must admit that, to the casual observer, seemed more than a bit suspicious," Fogg said. He hadn't said much so far, and Maurice tended not to look at him too much.   
  
"I'm very sorry, Mister Fogg. It was dark in the alley, and I was quite on edge, I thought you were one of them..."  
  
"You gave me a good one in the ribs, too," Fogg said, gingerly feeling the sore spot that, first the =Aurora=, and then Maurice, had used as a punching bag. Maurice swallowed, hard.  
  
"I'm - I'm so very sorry, sir. I mean, had I known it was =Phileas Fogg=, I'd never had..."  
  
"Forget it," Phileas said, smiling unexpectedly and giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "You have damned good fists, man. And a good technique, too."  
  
"Well, I can't say that you are a delicate damsel yourself, Mister Fogg," Maurice said, touching his face where Fogg's fist had left a bruise that was already turning purple. The young man seemed torn between the shame of hitting one of the Service's legends, and the pride of receiving praise from said legend. Rebecca rescued him.  
  
"Well, it seems that you had the situation well in hand," she said, "and that our very interesting little trip to get here in time wasn't needed after all. For which I'm quite glad, all things considered."  
  
Verne looked around at the obvious signs of recent violence aboard the =Aurora=, as well as the exhausted faces of his friends. Even Fogg, although as neat and cat-like as ever in his elegant dark suit, seemed a bit hunched over, and his pallor suggested some physical lingering pain as well as weariness. He frowned and made a mental note to ask Rebecca later about this "very interesting little trip."  
  
"I wouldn't say so, Miss Fogg," Maurice was saying, frowning. "I could never had nailed those men as you did. My plan consisted merely of running away."  
  
"And a damned good plan it was, too, but I'm very glad you didn't have to resort to it," Rebecca said, giving him a smile that turned the young man's face to bright scarlet.  
  
"But why were you inventing the valet story, Maurice?" Passepartout asked. "Is it not being so strange a story to invent?"  
  
"I thought it had a good chance, considering Jules... I mean, the nature of Monsieur Verne's relationship with the Foggs."  
  
"An eccentric, but useful gift from an anonymous gentleman, mmh?" Rebecca said, eyes alight with mischief. "I think it was brilliant. What do you think, Phileas?"  
  
"I would =never= resort to such a ridiculously contrived scheme, Rebecca," Phileas said, jerking his chin up and sniffing. "Of course, it would be in Verne's nature, as a writer, to fall for such a far-fetched and unlikely story."  
  
"He thinks it was brilliant too," Rebecca said, stifling a laugh. "Well, Maurice, all I can say is that I'm damned glad you were there. Good job."  
  
"Yes, that's the other thing," Jules said suddenly. "=Why= were you here? I mean, Rebecca discovered the plot to kill me when she deciphered those documents, but how did =you= know?"  
  
Maurice blinked, "Well, isn't it obvious? Chatsworth sent me. Sir Jonathan Chatsworth, I should say."  
  
There was a brief silence.  
  
"Chatsworth," Phileas said, flatly.  
  
"Chatsworth?" Rebecca exclaimed, with unflattering incredulity.  
  
"Yes. He found out who the double agent was three days ago, and after the interrogation he called me to his office and gave me specific instructions to get to Paris as soon as I could and protect Monsieur Verne with my life. I have the dossier here; my instructions were to keep it with me at all times. It's very thorough."  
  
"Well, well," Rebecca said, leafing through the dossier that Maurice gave her. "Who would have thought, eh, Phileas?"  
  
"Chatsworth," Phileas said, in a still slightly shocked voice, "I'll be damned."  
  
"Apparently he managed to see beyond the end of his own nose without my help," Rebecca said, tartly, but Phileas refused to be ruffled.  
  
"I'm heartily glad that the only flash of genius Chatsworth's ever displayed was on your behalf, Verne," he said, and turning to Maurice he added, "and may I also say, glad that he happened to choose an excellent man for the assignment."  
  
Maurice turned beet red this time, and coughed, and played with his lapels, and did all he could to avoid showing his embarrassment. When he looked up, he found the beaming face of Jules smiling at him.  
  
"And may I add my thanks for saving my life, Maurice," he said, shaking his hand warmly. "If you're half as good an agent as you are a valet, the Service has quite an asset in you."  
  
"Well, sir," Maurice said, his smile running from ear to ear, "I like to think that I do my job =properly=."  
  
  
  
The End  
  
* * * * * * * * * * 


End file.
